it makes you hate yourself, and that’s a sort of living Hell. I think the idea of God is very nice for little children and the idea of going to Hell if you are naughty keeps them in order, which isn’t a bad thing, while they are learning how to behave.
But it’s a bit like Father Christmas or the Tooth Fairy – all in the imagination. That doesn’t explain why lots of grown-ups believe in God or Buddha or Allah, though.
It’s too complicated. There don’t seem to be any books on religion at the house, so I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out, unless I get to learn something at school. But we’ll only get to learn stuff that’s in the curriculum, I think. I’ve read that somewhere – Mum’s Independent probably. That’s an interesting newspaper. Intelligent, compared to Grandpop’s paper. Smaller print and no tits so it must be good.
(Mum tried to get the local newsagent to move the tabloids to the top shelves with the sex magazines, but he wouldn’t. She said they Demeaned Women. And small children would see the naked girls on the front covers and think that women were Pieces of Meat or Men’s Toys. I don’t really see the connection between meat and toys. Also, I was terribly embarrassed at Mum making a fuss.)
Also, they have poems in the Independent , which I think is really cool. Death, war, politics (boring), sport, and poems. I think I might start writing poetry. Well, I did some at my first school, but that was just juvenile stuff. My next lot will be sophisticated and sensitive and mature. The results of vast experience – having divorced parents, grandparents who die. Having a life-threatening disease – that sort of thing.
How does anyone find time to do everything they want to do in their life? Life’s too short. I suppose the thing to do is to do it now – get started with whatever – just do it.
Poetry is a way of talking about things that frighten you. I read that in one of Mr Writer’s books. I wonder if his books are on the shelves – the ones he writes – Mr Writer?
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN WE FIRST came to Peregrine Cottage there was a gardener who came Saturdays to trim the hedges and strim the paths. Mr Lorn, his name was (great name for a gardener), a man with a lovely smile and a straw hat, and he wore a grey tracksuit with holes in the knees. He was bent over a bit but very agile, clambering up the steps and mending the rustic arches – there are several in the garden and they are made of old bits of branches that keep rotting and falling off. He’s supposed to be looking after the garden while the owner’s away. I’ve only seen him twice. I don’t know what’s happened to him. Maybe he’s died.
Since then the garden has become rather overgrown – in fact it’s more of a wilderness than a garden, I would say. You can still just about see the paths and steps but stuff has taken over. Brambles grow faster than you would believe – there’s a bramble branch with thorns shooting out over a path, where there was none yesterday. It’s a real thug. Taking over. There are other weedy plants – they must be weeds because they grow so well – with sticky bits on their prickly leaves, and they grow through real cultivated plants and end up looking just like them, as if they are deliberately camouflaging themselves so they can survive.
Note: I’ve looked them up – Cleavers, they are called. Which is an excellent name because that is what they do – Cleave to me darling da da da da da da… How does it go?
‘Mum, what happened to the gardener?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea, Sweetie. Why?’
‘Because nature is taking the garden back.’
‘Hm, I suppose it Is, rather.’ Mum is lying on her tummy on a mattress in the sun.
‘Is it all right for it to do that?’
‘Don’t nag me, I’m Relaxing.’
‘But won’t the owner be rather cross if he comes back and finds he can’t find the house because of the brambles?’
‘Gussie, you do exaggerate.
But it’s a bit like Father Christmas or the Tooth Fairy – all in the imagination. That doesn’t explain why lots of grown-ups believe in God or Buddha or Allah, though.
It’s too complicated. There don’t seem to be any books on religion at the house, so I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out, unless I get to learn something at school. But we’ll only get to learn stuff that’s in the curriculum, I think. I’ve read that somewhere – Mum’s Independent probably. That’s an interesting newspaper. Intelligent, compared to Grandpop’s paper. Smaller print and no tits so it must be good.
(Mum tried to get the local newsagent to move the tabloids to the top shelves with the sex magazines, but he wouldn’t. She said they Demeaned Women. And small children would see the naked girls on the front covers and think that women were Pieces of Meat or Men’s Toys. I don’t really see the connection between meat and toys. Also, I was terribly embarrassed at Mum making a fuss.)
Also, they have poems in the Independent , which I think is really cool. Death, war, politics (boring), sport, and poems. I think I might start writing poetry. Well, I did some at my first school, but that was just juvenile stuff. My next lot will be sophisticated and sensitive and mature. The results of vast experience – having divorced parents, grandparents who die. Having a life-threatening disease – that sort of thing.
How does anyone find time to do everything they want to do in their life? Life’s too short. I suppose the thing to do is to do it now – get started with whatever – just do it.
Poetry is a way of talking about things that frighten you. I read that in one of Mr Writer’s books. I wonder if his books are on the shelves – the ones he writes – Mr Writer?
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN WE FIRST came to Peregrine Cottage there was a gardener who came Saturdays to trim the hedges and strim the paths. Mr Lorn, his name was (great name for a gardener), a man with a lovely smile and a straw hat, and he wore a grey tracksuit with holes in the knees. He was bent over a bit but very agile, clambering up the steps and mending the rustic arches – there are several in the garden and they are made of old bits of branches that keep rotting and falling off. He’s supposed to be looking after the garden while the owner’s away. I’ve only seen him twice. I don’t know what’s happened to him. Maybe he’s died.
Since then the garden has become rather overgrown – in fact it’s more of a wilderness than a garden, I would say. You can still just about see the paths and steps but stuff has taken over. Brambles grow faster than you would believe – there’s a bramble branch with thorns shooting out over a path, where there was none yesterday. It’s a real thug. Taking over. There are other weedy plants – they must be weeds because they grow so well – with sticky bits on their prickly leaves, and they grow through real cultivated plants and end up looking just like them, as if they are deliberately camouflaging themselves so they can survive.
Note: I’ve looked them up – Cleavers, they are called. Which is an excellent name because that is what they do – Cleave to me darling da da da da da da… How does it go?
‘Mum, what happened to the gardener?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea, Sweetie. Why?’
‘Because nature is taking the garden back.’
‘Hm, I suppose it Is, rather.’ Mum is lying on her tummy on a mattress in the sun.
‘Is it all right for it to do that?’
‘Don’t nag me, I’m Relaxing.’
‘But won’t the owner be rather cross if he comes back and finds he can’t find the house because of the brambles?’
‘Gussie, you do exaggerate.
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